Power
by Dinadette
Summary: Victoria watches her husband and her head of security, remembers another man and hopes Conrad knows what he is doing this time.


There is something disturbing to witnessing her husband, ever the alpha male, taking orders from their head of security – a glorified employee, but an employee nonetheless. He doesn't belong to their world, never will, so maybe it made the fact a bit more okay. Or not. For now she couldn't bother minding it, not when she could watch instead.

Frank isn't David Clarke, she decides in a failed attempt at reassuring herself. David had been much too close, it had been a mistake. Frank is different. The man doesn't do feelings, doesn't do guilt, only does lust and paid loyalty. It is easier to think so anyway.

The two men are face to face. You would think it's a fight, not a fuck. Oh, how she hopes her husband doesn't underestimate him… Frank's manly hand pets her husband's elegant face as if he was a girl, a whore. There is disdain to the caress and the two Graysons shudder. His thumb finds his mouth, rubs against it.

"Open for me, mister Grayson". There's no doubt in his mind that he will do it. And indeed Conrad is licking at him, his warm mouth welcoming and giving what the other man wants. Soon it's not enough.

"On your knees, handsome", he orders in a low savage voice, praising the man who is very much his superior, and somehow Conrad doesn't say anything, doesn't protest. He doesn't obey either, staring back, but he's breathing hard.

"I said. On. Your. Knees". There's no petty praising in his demand now. This is a man who is used to getting his way. His hand flies to his gun, half hidden inside his jacket, and for an instant she freezes and fears… What? It's ridiculous. Victoria wonders if her husband will take it, she almost hopes that he will tell Frank he's going too far. He doesn't.

Conrad Grayson, husband to the Queen of the Hamptons, is kneeling for another man and fiddling with his fly. His eyes are still on the gun when Frank removes his hand, and they're dark with desire. She whimpers. But she can breathe again.

His mouth is on him before Frank even suggests, which annoys her. He bobs up and down in the silence. She wonders if it is a dream.

"There's a fucking good boy", the younger man says lazily. He runs his hand through his employer's salt and pepper hair with complacency. His tone, his gaze wreck her even though they are directed at her husband. Maybe because they are. The compliment almost sounds like a jab from her point of view, but she doesn't think men do underhanded the way women would. Frank's job is reading people though, knowing what makes them tick, what scares them and what their most private dreams are.

Conrad takes all of it suddenly and Frank inhales sharply. That's the closest he will get to showing surprise. Victoria wants them so much.

"Honey", she moans, unsure who she is calling to. Probably both of them. They ignored her again, too caught up with each other as if it was a contest, who would look away first. It was never Frank, even when his eyes went entirely dark and he was so close, but maybe this time… Conrad could only hope.

Frank grabs her husband's head and things are going so fast now, she has to crane her neck not to miss out on the action. Her head of the security is hardly showing any feeling. His eyes are deep and dark, traitorous like the ocean. Unreadable. She can see he's tense, his mouth twitches a few times and he's probably slightly out of breath. Does he enjoy using his employer so? She doesn't ask, and he wouldn't say. In the mean time Conrad lost, again, and apparently that does it for Frank.

"Fuck", he growls so low she is not sure she has heard right. His knuckles are white in her husband's hair. Her husband, who is taking it like he means it, like he loves it.

There is certainly a familiarity to the scene, to the gestures. She has only witnessed this a couple of times so she darkly assumes they've been doing it behind her back for a while too. It stings, somehow, but less than Lydia and she likes not knowing who she is jealous of. She considers joining the fun, next time – there is always a next time, even when it's a bad idea – and she envisions herself leaving her comfortable bed, worshipping on her knees, kissing and sharing. Her hand finally moves between her legs, pride be damned.

* * *

As she was basking in the afterglow, the two men gone, Victoria had a foreboding. None of this was right. It wouldn't end well. Someone was bound to get hurt, maybe even all of them. Maybe worse than hurt. Once again she considered saying something, but no word came out of her mouth and she settled for sleep instead.


End file.
